


Like the Dust in the Sunbeams

by pascaler23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Love, M/M, Mind Palace, Sleepy Cuddles, descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pascaler23/pseuds/pascaler23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once John is asleep after their first night together, Sherlock makes sure to be aware to every single thing he feels, every single thing he sees, to never forget it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Dust in the Sunbeams

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an old fanfic and I Johnlocked things up.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it! :)
> 
> Warning: I'm francophone, so sorry if you find mistakes.
> 
> (Thanks Majo for the find a title support team xD)

Of all the memories of his life Sherlock had carefully organised in his mind palace, this was his new favorite. There was nothing else bringing him such a sentiment of belonging, no other picture bringing him such a feeling of peace. It was as if the serenity of the moment was floating in the air, like the dust in the sunbeams, and he was basking in it, feeling it make its way through his every limb until all he could feel was the tender arms of sleep slowly tugging him at its side, which was not something he was used to. After the eagerness, the avid and ardent passion, just as after the sensual and torturous worshipping, the delicacy, that moment somehow felt even more intimate. To let go, without any concern, and just live in the moment. Not thinking about all the threats surrounding them, about Moriarty. Not caring for when they would wake up, for what would be waiting for them. Yes, he loved to think, craved it like an addict craved a drug, loved to feel his synapses make links and deducing, analysing, overheating his brain and using it to its full capacity. But this, tonight, that was another sort of overheating his brain, asking for his full attention, and he discovered he loved it. Shut-eye, Sherlock lazed into that sensation of security and well being he had never felt before. Never until that point, that specific moment, never like he could drop all of his guards and just abandon himself to that feeling. He wished to the bottom of his soul it could last forever, even if he knew it was childish and vain. He did not think about that though. John had told him to enjoy this moment, and he would, because John was always right about those things.

But before falling protected into the welcoming rest offered to him, Sherlock took the time to revel in the instant. Every little detail was meticulously inscribed into his mind palace, as if it were the last time he’d ever feel such a feeling of inclusion, of complementarity. He needed to be able to remember everything, to be able to recreate the memory later when he’d need to feel like that way again. One of the first thing he loved about it was the temperature. What a particular sensation it was, the comforting warmth radiating from skin against skin, mixed with the cool freshness of the sheets lying softly over his hips, light as a feather. Then, he took note of the long legs intertwined with his, feeling the bone of his knee pressing into the milky flesh of a thigh, the hair on the calves tickling his own. From above the soft shoulder of his lover, Sherlock could see the latter’s loose, slack hand resting on the bed. He noticed the slightly curved fingers, the muscles in each and every single one of them relaxed. The detective was always amazed at how his boyfriend could make any part of his body, as boring as they could appear, look so erotic.

His arms, too, so muscled, soldiers arms, and Sherlock sometimes liked to sit in his chair while John read books or typed on his keyboard and observe the movement of the muscles as they worked under the skin, watching as John used which fingers which part would move.

Pressing himself closer, Sherlock could feel against his chest the small but strong back, still sticky with sweat but fitting so perfectly against him. He could feel the slowing rhythm of his heartbeat, and he imagined it being in perfect unison with his lover’s own heart. (He would, of course, never admit to have such romantic and foolish thoughts to anyone.) Against the skin of his arm, he could feel every detail, mold into the very form of his companion as he hugged him tighter. With light, lazy fingertips, he caressed the flat of the other man’s stomach, soft as the petal of a flower. Sherlock felt the mild respiration of his boyfriend, the inflation and deflation of his lungs, and he synchronized their breathing, serene.

Giving into temptation, the brunet pressed his nose closer, smelling the deep scent of the back of the neck exposed to him. The odor reminded him of a hot night of summer, but still soft and peculiar, more like if he had just tasted the most exquisite and savoursome tea. Nuzzling at the curve of the nape, Sherlock prompted himself on one elbow, letting his gaze fly over the little short hair at the base of the head, sticking to the skin. The expense of the throat, the smooth collarbones... He continued his exploration, rediscovering the wound of the gunshot displayed on the shoulder. He bent his head and kissed it with reverence and care, letting his lips travel freely on the bumpy, soft flesh. He then made his way up, until he could see the soft sleeping features of his love.

Of all the the things he loved about John, one of his favorites was seeing him sleep. It may have been their first night together, but Sherlock had always secretly loved to watch John sleep, either bent over the desk when he felt asleep, exhausted from working, or on the sofa with a cup of tea next to him on the floor. In a hotel room after a long day on a case out of the city. But that night, just after they’d become one for the first time, John had whispered words of love in his ear and then fell asleep in his arms, and it was Sherlock’s favorite moment.

His mouth, those beautiful thin lips that have been driving Sherlock mad since the first time he had laid eyes on them smiling, so genuine and  _ for him _ , were slightly parted, letting the deeper respiration pass. John’s features were so relaxed, relaxed like the detective had ever seen them. There was no furrow furiously marking his forehead, not circle under his eyes. All the worry and insecurities, constants in John’s life, were forgotten for that brief moment. Realizing that, Sherlock was a bit shocked at how much his lover was overdoing. He hadn’t realise working with him on cases were so exhausting. He felt guilty, knowing John was in this situation because of him. To see the blond at peace shouldn’t be this much of a surprise. Sherlock promised to himself he’d make sure John took some time to himself from now on. Read some rubbish article or watch telly, go for pints, whichever of those ludicrous activity the doctor enjoyed for some reason.

The only regret he had from watching his love like this was the inability to see his eyes. Oh, how they looked in the heat of passion, so wild and dark, but somehow still shining like crystal. The color always reminded Sherlock of water, of the dark, tumultuous seas, an incredible strength, snapping enormous boats in two as if they were made of cardboard. A breathtaking spectacle, deadly and majestic. John’s eyes looked even more gorgeous with the contrast of his red, heated skin as they made love. Sherlock longed to see them right now.

Finally, his hair, lying messily on the pillow, all sticking up. Sherlock would certainly tease him about sex hair in the morning. The flat and boring strands of hair were now in a frenzy, wet and displayed, and it added so much to the oh so erotic picture John made. So tempting, the brunet just wanted to comb his finger through it.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock laid down and buried himself deeper against his man. He looked like he wanted to absorb him, to become a very part of him. John slept in his arms with a complete trust, so vulnerable and strong at the same time, and it was the most humbling feeling the detective had ever felt. John had saved him some many times, had found things in Sherlock that the latter didn’t even knew he had himself. John was a miracle, and the brunet was secretly scared that he would be taken away from him, or that John might one day realise how insufferable Sherlock was to live with and leave. How there was always something dangerous, lurking in the dark, something risky, and that it might be too much eventually. The detective repetitively had that feeling in his gut, that apprehension that something terrible was waiting for them, was going to tear them apart from each other.

But now was not the time to fret over those things. Now it was the time to revel in where he was, with who he was, and to marvel at how unbelievably lucky he was.

  
Dropping a soft kiss to his love’s temple, Sherlock joined him in his sleep, not worrying for the morning and concentrating on the feel of the warm body against his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback is always appreciated! :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr: http://canoe23.tumblr.com


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